


Do not stand at my grave and weep

by crackinthecup



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Funerals, Gen, Gondolin, Grief/Mourning, Smithing as a coping mechanism, Very vague mentions of past imprisonment/torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: Five glimpses into Aredhel’s life, her death, and its aftermath, told from Rog’s perspective.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Do not stand at my grave and weep

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

Rog had seen death many times before. It had followed him from the blood-slicked shores of Alqualondë to the dungeons of Angband where the very air reeked of decay. But then, for a short while, he had been free of it. In Gondolin he had found some semblance of peace.

He was no stranger to grief; to this emptiness in his chest, the feeling that his ribs would cave in. _Had it always felt like this?_ Time had dulled the sharper parts of memory, and now he found himself remembering what it felt like to truly _hurt_.

He didn’t look away as Aredhel’s body was lowered into the shallow grave they’d dug for her. It wasn’t a good day for a funeral – wind was howling through the steeps and crags of the Echoriath, and rain was drizzling down like a grey curtain, making everyone look washed-up and alone. But it had to be done sooner and not later.

She was unnaturally still and frail-looking, a splash of white against the dark earth, blurring in the rain. Rog glanced over to Maeglin standing alone at the edge of the grave.

He had seen death many times before.

This was no different.

But he could not speak for the sorrow welling up inside of him.

There was a quiet exchange of words, but he could not hear what was said through the wailing wind. Someone covered her body with a thin layer of soil; Turgon handed the first stone for the cairn to Maeglin.

Maeglin slowly turned the stone round and round in his hands as though he was trying to make this moment linger, to make this whole stupid thing stop in its tracks; but she was dead, everything had already become wrong and warped, and all they could do now was pick up the jagged pieces.

Eventually, Maeglin put the stone down. He remained rooted to the spot, and everyone else glided around him like silent ghosts to lay their own stones on top of Aredhel’s grave.

Rog went last, carefully balancing his stone on the top of the small cairn they had built for her. Like Maeglin, he lingered. He trailed a hand down the side of the cairn, intensely aware of the roughness of the stones dragging at his skin.

This wasn’t – couldn’t – be enough, not for her.

He turned to Turgon, opening his mouth to speak: surely they could stack the cairn up higher; he would spend the evening here in the wind and the rain to make sure they had a fitting place to remember her. It was the least he could do.

But before he could say anything, Turgon laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I’ll finish up here," he said quietly, looking grey and drawn and so horribly far away, and Rog understood.

Everyone else had started filing away towards the lonely mountain paths leading down into the city, but Maeglin still did not move. He looked as much made of stone as Aredhel’s cairn, and as grim and cold.

The moon had started to crawl up into the sky, but it was slim and pale, adrift in a sea of dark clouds. It lengthened shadows and made faces look sickly, and with a shiver Rog made his decision, moving to Maeglin’s side.

"C’mon, lad," he said as kindly as he could.

Maeglin turned like one lost in a trance, but he trailed after Rog without word or resistance.

No one knew how long Turgon stayed.

Xxx

Rog looked on, amused, as Aredhel vigorously hacked at a wooden plank with a handsaw.

"What are these for again?" he asked, gesturing to the collection of planks that had been strewn across his garden for the last few weeks.

"Pigeon coop," Aredhel said, smiling up at him. "I need something to get my brother to actually go outside once in a while."

Rog laughed, settling down in the grass next to hear.

"He seems busy of late."

"Likes to make himself busy, that one."

Rog playfully nudged her with his shoulder. "So do you."

"Pot calling kettle black," she retorted good-naturedly and he gave a little shrug in acceptance. _Guilty as charged_.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while, Rog placidly watching Aredhel as she continued to cut the wooden planks down to size. The sun was high in the sky, suffusing the city in a gentle golden radiance. Rog closed his eyes, tipping his head back, savouring the warmth of the sun on his skin. He loved these moments between them, one or both of them working away, basking in the quiet companionship they shared. It was the most peace he’d known in years.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Aredhel muttered to herself, and before Rog could say anything, she pulled a necklace out of the satchel she always carried with her.

It was a beautiful thing, a finely carved wooden pendant strung on a silver chain. It was exquisitely crafted in a crisscrossing geometric design that resembled the tattoos inked into Rog’s skin.

"I made this for you," she said, smiling, looping it round his neck. "To say thanks for letting me store my materials in your garden."

"You didn’t have to," Rog said quietly, clasping the locket between his fingers and turning it in the light. The sun shone through the open spaces between the crisscrossing strips of wood, golden and dazzling.

"Thought you might like it." She planted a small peck on his cheek, careful not to touch him longer than he was comfortable with.

"It’s exquisite," he said sincerely. Hesitating only a little, he pecked her on the cheek in return – it had been a long time since he had touched anyone like that; but the evils of the past seemed faint and minuscule, almost unreal, in this golden light.

Aredhel beamed at him in that bright, infectious way she had, and he found himself grinning back at her.

Xxx

Rog paused outside the door to Aredhel’s chamber – _her sick-chamber_ , he thought and wished he hadn’t. He could hear voices coming from inside, Aredhel and a less familiar voice.

He turned on his heel to leave, intending to come back later, not wanting to disturb them. But he must’ve made more noise than he had intended, because Aredhel called out: "You can come in!"

He carefully inched the door open. "I hope I’m not disturbing."

Aredhel was beaming up at him, her whole face lighting up in that way of hers, and she looked good, she looked healthy, not limp, not sickly like she had been in the hall, and his heart felt lighter than it had in years.

" _Meldonya_ , it’s been too long!" She sat up a bit straighter in her bed, and Maeglin – it was him she had been talking to – rearranged the pillows for her.

Rog closed the door behind him, walking to her side and pulling up a chair beside Maeglin’s own. He felt a genuine smile pulling at the corners of his lips for the first time in what felt like eons.

"Lómion, this is Rog – he’s someone I really wanted you to meet."

He felt Maeglin looking at him curiously and he inclined his head in greeting.

"I’ve heard much about you."

"Good things, I hope," he smiled and Aredhel laughed with a sparkle in her eye and all seemed well and good.

"I would like to work with you," Maeglin said, and there was a keenness about him, a quiet determination, that reminded him instantly of Aredhel.

"Have you worked in a forge before?"

Maeglin nodded.

"We’ll get you set up then."

"You’ll love it," Aredhel said to Maeglin, squeezing his knee. "You’ll love it here. You and I –"

A knock at the door interrupted whatever she was going to say.

"Come in!" she called.

The healer bustled through the door, carrying clean bandages and ointments.

"I’d better go," Rog told her quietly. "You need to rest."

She fondly rolled her eyes at his solicitude. "I’ll be _fine_. We need to catch up properly later. I’ll bring the wine."

He reached out to her, lightly squeezing her hand in a promise of light and laughter, of things going back to how they used to be, and left her in the capable hands of the healer.

Xxx

Rog never went to sleep the night after the funeral. He tossed and he turned in his bed, thinking of Aredhel buried in the cold, high mountains, of how alone she was up there with nothing but the stones and the wind and the rain for company, of how alone she must’ve felt in all the years she had been lost to them.

He would have almost welcomed his usual nightmares. The cruel steel of Angband did not terrify him as much as the grief in his chest, beating like a mad little heart alongside his own pulse. He would always wake up from the nightmares, safe and alone in his room, the life he had built for himself slowly emerging from the darkness.

But Aredhel would still be gone, tomorrow and a thousand years from now.

It wasn’t fair, not to her, not to anyone who had known her.

It wasn’t fair, and there was nothing he could do about it.

With a shaky sigh he got out of bed and put some clothes on. If he wasn’t going to sleep tonight, at least he could get things done in his forge.

It was late enough to be considered early. The stars were veiled and the air was still icy after the night’s storm. No one else was around.

He lost count of how many hours he spent in the forge. He picked up every single side project he’d left unfinished over the past months, striking his hammer hard enough for the force of it to travel up his arm and reverberate in his chest. His arm grew sore, his brow dripped with sweat, but at least, for a little while, it seemed to dislodge his grief, to send it twisting and scrambling to some dark part of himself he was barely aware of.

He was only half-surprised when, after some indeterminate time, he turned and spotted Maeglin loitering in the shadows by the door.

"Hey lad," he said, his voice coming out more gruffly than he had intended. Maeglin didn’t seem to mind.

"I haven’t seen that technique before," Maeglin said quietly, nodding towards the kiln Rog had been using to heat-treat metal.

Rog gestured for him to come closer, unexpectedly, viscerally glad that Maeglin had plunged into a conversation far removed from the topic of Aredhel. (Rog knew that wasn’t strictly true: as her laughter, her kindness, her fierceness had done in life, her absence in death would colour everything they said or did for days, weeks, months to come. He knew what Maeglin was doing, recognised the same behaviour in himself: burying the hurt of it beneath physical labour, something he could do without thinking, achieving a finished end-product that he could look on with satisfaction and pretend he wasn’t crumbling apart on the inside.)

"Not many people use it," Rog told Maeglin. "There are newer, quicker techniques out there."

Maeglin traced a finger down the side of the kiln, his dark eyes intently watching the flames inside of it. Suddenly, sharply Rog was reminded of Aredhel, and his heart seemed to reawaken and remember how much it could ache.

"I could show you," Rog offered, and Maeglin nodded his assent.

Xxx

Eöl was spitting vitriol, and Rog felt the first real surge of emotion since the funeral, white-hot and angry.

Long had Gondolin remained inviolate, a city of bliss and plenty. But that had been snatched away in an instant of reckless pride or hate or an intermingling of the two.

The White Lady of Gondolin was dead, and the world was made small and grim by her passing.

It was not right to take the life of another elf. But then again, not much felt right after Aredhel’s death.

Eöl’s fate had been Turgon’s decision, but in truth, no one had tried to talk him out of it.

It wasn’t going to bring her back. Nothing could. But it felt like _something_ instead of this emptiness yawning wide inside of him, creeping like a deathless weed into every nook and crevice.

Eöl was already dead by the time he hit the ground.

No one looked away.

No one said anything.

Soon enough the crowd started to disperse; there was nothing more to see here.

Maeglin still lingered when almost everyone else had gone. Rog drew to his side.

"You okay?"

Maeglin nodded tightly. Something caught across his face, something raw and desolate, but it was gone the next second. Rog didn’t press any further.

"Hey," Rog said instead, trying to keep his voice from sounding too rough, unused to the delicacy this required. He retrieved the locket that Aredhel had made for him many years ago from round his neck, pressing it to his chest for a brief moment. He let it dangle from its silver chain, showing it to Maeglin. "Your – she made this for me, a long time ago."

"It’s beautiful," Maeglin said softly, moving as if to grasp the locket but not quite letting his fingers touch it.

Rog carefully pressed it into his palm, and Maeglin glanced up at him. There it was again, that flicker of emotion across his face, smoothed away as soon as it had appeared. "It’s yours now."

Maeglin silently accepted the locket. He looked at it for a long time, turning it round and round in his fingers, seemingly entranced.

Rog stepped back, giving Maeglin more room, feeling that he was intruding.

"You know where the forge is," he said, and left Maeglin to his thoughts.


End file.
